


Autosurgery

by CaptainAFAB



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blackmail, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Mild Gore, POV Third Person Omniscient, Self-Sacrifice, Surgery, Unresolved Tension, Whump, check the author's note for possible TW, depiction of sensory overload, everyone is busy, hawkeye fucks up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAFAB/pseuds/CaptainAFAB
Summary: Autosurgery: the act of performing a surgical procedure on oneself.
Relationships: Frank Burns & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Frank Burns/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	Autosurgery

**Author's Note:**

> possible TW for self-harm/cutting within the context of surgery. stay safe friends!
> 
> inspired by that one bathtub surgery scene in House M.D.  
> you know the one.
> 
> this is set sometime around season 4 probably, if that matters ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> fun fact of the day: according to numerous unsubstantiated internet sources, Alan Alda's blood type is A!
> 
> as always, hats off to the one and only [peaches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/pseuds/holograms), who encourages my flights of fancy daily.
> 
> love you all,  
> please enjoy ~

Sweat soaked hair sticks to his face, the glare of the summer sun reflects off his helmet and his leg throbs with every pothole he hits. The jeep’s suspension is doing all it can but there’s not much to work with when the divots in the road were left by stray shells. Hawkeye’s never been the best driver—always goes too fast, doesn’t pay enough attention, usually drunk—but he’s so  _ tired _ now and that’s only making it worse. There’s only one thought in his head,  _ I have to get back _ . 

A group of corpsmen are still unloading the last bus of wounded he sent on from the Aid Station when he pulls into the 4077th. Margaret is dressed all in white, blood spattered across her scrubs. He watches her perform triage from afar, taking pulses and shaking her head or motioning them on to pre-op. She is the picture of efficiency. He gets a glimpse of Klinger’s powder pink dress disappearing inside the building before the door swings shut. 

“Choppers!” _Radar_ , he thinks.

He hears someone shout back, “Tell ‘em we’re full up! No more beds!”

The air is still and thick with humidity. For just a moment, all is quiet. Then he hears them. 

Margaret waves on those who can be spared. They hurry up the hill with stretchers and jeeps.

BJ comes staggering out of the Swamp to follow but Margaret intercepts him. He can hear their shouted conversation.

“Just  _ where  _ do you think you’re going, Hunnicutt?”

“Wounded! I have to—” 

“Colonel Potter gave you a direct order. No one can operate for thirty-six hours without sleep so don’t even try it!”

“But—” 

“I am your superior officer and you will go back to bed— _ now. _ ”

He watches as BJ sulks back to the Swamp, clearly too tired to mount much of an offence.

Hawkeye understands. He wants to drive up the hill with them. To get out of his seat and run to Margaret and help her make those vital decisions. To put on his gown and gloves and scrub up and be  _ helpful _ . The searing pain in his thigh reminds him why he cannot. The corpsmen returning from the hill with more casualties makes him realize there is  _ one  _ way he can help. He can spare them one more.

Hawkeye pulls his jeep up as close to the VIP tent as he dares, leaving it far enough away so as to not be obvious. It probably doesn’t matter. They’re only going to keep getting more wounded and by the time they think to look for him it’ll all be over. 

He slings his cloth bag over his shoulder and makes his way to the VIP tent. The short walk there is numbingly painful. By the time he opens the door, the pain in his left thigh has faded to a dull throb. He sweeps clutter off a side table with his arm, dumping the contents of his medical bag out to replace it. He has his tools and there is enough gauze and silk, he supposes. This will be quick, anyway. He reaches into his chest pocket for his gin flask and sets that down too. Good. That should do the trick.

He props pillows up behind him so he is half-reclined on the cot, bends his right leg at the knee to get more comfortable, and assesses the damage. 

The pressure bandage on his left thigh has completely bled through. Okay, that was to be expected. He grabs the pair of scissors from his surgery “tray” and cuts it off. Warm blood oozes from the tears in his pants. He tries to take them off but finds it too difficult to lift his ass up off the cot so he can slide them down. Great. He uses the scissors to cut the fabric covering his left leg. He pulls the bloody edge of his shorts up toward his hip, bunching them out of the way and exposing the wound. There is too much blood to really see anything. He grabs the flask of gin, takes a swig for good measure, and pours. 

Hawkeye sucks in a sharp breath, feeling the spirits sting his muscle as they wash away the blood and sulfa. He breathes out slowly, closing his eyes to stop the room spinning for a moment. When he looks down again the field is clear enough for him to see the entry wound. Strike that— _ wounds _ . The bullet has fragmented into three—no  _ four _ —separate pieces, but they look mostly superficial. Okay. No big deal. He can do this. 

He pours some more gin on his hands and scrubs up as well as he can.  _ Damn _ , why didn’t he pack gloves? Oh well. If it was good enough for the boys in the field it was good enough for him. He has enough presence of mind to remove his belt, wrap it tightly around his upper thigh and hold the end of it taught between his teeth. 

He’s good at this—always has been—but he has to work quickly before the shock sets in. He makes a plan, numbers each fragment in his mind and starts in on the first one. It’s nearest the top, an edge sticking conveniently out, practically inviting him to pull on it. He removes it easily with his forceps. A little blood bubbles up and drips down the side of his thigh. He wipes it away with some gauze and takes another calming breath.  _ One  _ down. That was easy.

The first incision is a kind of pain he’s never experienced before. It’s not necessarily the worst he’s ever felt but the fact that he’s doing it to himself makes him queasy. Or maybe that’s the shock setting in? He’d better hurry up. He bites down harder on the belt, trades his scalpel for the forceps, and pulls the next one out. That’s  _ two _ .

The next one is deeper. He has to force himself to keep going, dragging the steel blade through his skin, slicing himself open to get at the metal inside. When he reaches for the forceps this time his fingers find the scissors. He shakes his head quickly. There are fish swimming in the corners of the room. C’mon, halfway done. He locates the correct tool and presses it into the opening he made for himself, searching in the pooling blood for something hard. 

He is panting, short shallow breaths from behind the leather belt. It tastes like dust. Sweat is dripping down his face and running into his eyes. God, what he would give for a nurse right now.  _ No. Focus. _ He doesn’t hear so much as  _ feel _ a dull clink. His fingers are slick with blood and his vision is narrowing but he manages to get the forceps around it.  _ Three _ . 

He wipes at the field once more, trying to soak up the blood in a poor imitation of suction. He can see the fourth entry wound but this fragment must be a lot deeper. He presses down with the scalpel again but doesn’t feel it as much as before. He is relieved. Less pain is good, right?  _ No it’s not. You’re going into shock. _

He sees the tent flaps swirling in the… wind? Wasn’t it calm out today? Low pressure system. That’s what makes everything humid and hot and still. He wonders what the weather’s like back in Maine. He should really call his dad.  _ Remember what you’re doing _ .

He looks down, red blood is running down the side of his thigh, soaking into the cot below him. Oh, yeah. He is still clutching the scalpel. His hand is shaking now. That’s never happened before. He tries to steady himself but he can’t. The shaking is violent and he can hear someone’s panicked, sucking breaths. But he’s alone. He’d made sure of that. 

He can’t get a grip on the forceps this time. He is digging deep into the wound with the tool but his fingers keep slipping. He feels a twinge, the end of the belt slips from his teeth, then someone turns off the lights.

* * *

One hour. That’s what Potter said he could have. Pierce’s replacement from the 8063rd had just arrived—nearly twelve hours late—and Frank was next in line for a rest. His first thought was to go to the mess tent and grab a cup of coffee but he quickly rerouted when he saw they were using it as overflow for the wounded. Shameful, really, being made to work in such conditions. And,  _ damn _ but it was  _ loud _ today. Shells falling all around them, Hunnicutt’s incessant chatter (even without Pierce he wouldn’t shut up until Potter forced him to go to bed)... Frank wonders how he manages to get any work done at all with all the  _ noise _ . He considers going to the Swamp but the flaps are up and he really doesn’t want to be so exposed to the camp. Too many people. Too many things happening all at once. He needs to get away. He needs  _ quiet _ .

He finds his tired feet leading him to one of the secret places he would go with Margaret—only when he knew it would be empty, of course. He swings open the door to the VIP tent, hoping he can sneak in a few moments of peace and maybe a wink or two of sleep. He thought he’d escaped most of the sensations of the OR but clearly not well enough. Metallic blood meets his nose upon entering the tent and the light is already on—occupied. 

Then he sees him there, pale and bleeding. Pierce is lying, half-reclined on the cot, his left thigh cut open and dripping  _ so much blood _ . Frank surveys the scene, sees the tools, the flask, the tourniquet-belt. What the hell was Pierce  _ thinking _ ? He is frozen there, staring. He knows what he should do but he can’t. Why does this have to happen  _ now _ ?    
  


“Pierce!” he finally manages to call out, voice high-pitched and panicked.

No response. 

He hurries over to the cot and crouches down beside him, fingers checking for a pulse. Faintly, he feels the throb of Pierce’s jugular beneath his fingers. The sigh of relief he lets out is almost a sob. He ignores this. 

“Pierce!” he shouts again, shaking his shoulder, trying to rouse him. Pierce’s eyelashes flutter, then slowly raise. He looks at Frank with glassy eyes. 

“Oh… hey Frank,” Hawkeye mumbles, slowly regaining consciousness. “How’s it going?”

“Are you suicidal?” Frank demands, putting pressure on his wound with his bare hands.

“Not particularly.”

“Then what the hell are you doing?” The blood is somehow both slick and sticky under his fingers. Frank shudders.

Hawkeye comes back to himself now, looking down at his leg and cursing under his breath.  _ If only he’d been able to stay awake. _ “It’s not like I’m attempting an arterial transplant…I thought… I’ve done this so many times. How hard could it be?”

“A lot damn harder without anesthesia.” Frank is doing what he can to pack his wound with the limited supplies available. Then he’ll have to go get someone to carry Pierce into OR and fix this bloody mess.

“Wait, just... take the last fragment out, please. It’s… I think it’s close to the surface now please… just take it out and close me up.” Hakweye reaches out to the table, pointing. “I have a needle and silk—”

“Absolutely not! I’m going to get help—”

“No!” Pierce catches his wrist as he turns to leave. “Don’t… tell anyone… please.”

“Why on earth not?”

“It’s not my first choice… but… I fucked up, Frank. I can’t… I can’t put  _ all this _ on them too.”

Frank shakes his head. It doesn’t matter. It  _ shouldn’t _ matter. He had been wounded just as much as any soldier they treated. Why was Pierce being so  _ stupid _ about all of this _? _ “No, we need to get blood into you before—”

“ _ Then get me some blood damnit! _ ” The exertion of yelling leaves Hawkeye breathless but it’s better than losing consciousness again. “Just… help me… okay?”

Frank can’t do it. He’s not prepared for this… this  _ battlefield surgery _ . And unassisted, at that! He won’t.

“Help me… or I’ll tell Margaret… you kissed me  _ back. _ ”

“What?” It’s so unexpected that Frank briefly forgets the task at hand. “What are you even talking about?” Is Pierce hallucinating from the pain now?

“That day… in the scrub room…” Hawkeye can feel himself sliding back into the darkness. “When I kissed you… I’ll tell her. I’ll say you kissed… me back.”

“Well I  _ never— _ ” he starts, face flushed.

“Margaret doesn’t know… and who’s she gonna believe?” Hawkeye hopes that’s enough because it’s all he can say before he passes out again.

* * *

When he comes to he is lying on the same cot, in the same room. His thigh is bandaged, clean and white. He looks to his left and sees Radar sitting on a chair, reading a comic book. 

“Hawkeye! You’re awake!” He drops his book and comes to stand by Hawkeye’s bedside. He checks the IV connection. “Gonna need to grab another pint of A-negative, huh?” His smile is wide and relieved.

Hawkeye tries to talk but it’s hoarse, “Where’s… Frank?”

“Major Burns had to go back to surgery. But, uh, he told me to make sure you got at least three pints of blood in you before you even  _ think _ about standing up. And he said to stay off that leg as long as possible and to change the dressing twice a day.” Radar pauses, trying to remember. “Oh! And he told me to say… he won’t tell if you won’t tell.” He shrugs at Hawkeye, not understanding the message he’d been tasked to pass along.

Hawkeye lets his eyes fall closed again, a small smile on his lips. He dreams of home.

**Author's Note:**

> okay so it's not really all that shippy but... maybe I'll add more to this story if y'all like it ;)  
> don’t forget to comment! it keeps the fire burning  
> 
> 
> [come talk to me on tumblr <3](https://captainafab.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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